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said the bishop. “Mind you, we’re not
discussing religion, or even conventions, least of all politics. But surely
you are prejudiced against the type of woman represented by this Wu Tu?”
    “There is no worse public danger.”
    Warrender signed the chit for the drink with his left hand; his right was
feeling in his pocket. He pulled out a sketch done in crayon.
    “The woman you have in mind,” he said, “looks something like this. Her
place is a sort of vacation resort, a pleasure palace, if you wish to call it
that, where she herself presides. Her real purpose is political intrigue,
and, through it, power for herself. There was rather a long pause while the
bishop examined the sketch. “If she’s like that,” he said, “one can imagine
her hold over Chetusingh. But that only makes it more difficult. I am asking
,you to save him from her. What is that woman—Chinese?”
    “No. The sketch exaggerates the Chinese touch, although it’s there. She is
Portuguese; Chinese-Sikh-French—born in Hongkong. She’s a British
subject. Anything else you’d care to know about her? I could tell you her
bank balance and the names of her correspondents in Berlin, New York, Paris.
Or about the young Chinese widows who help her to entertain.”
    The bishop stirred uneasily. “These racial mixtures almost baffle one’s
hope for humanity! If she looks like that she should be at Hollywood playing
vampire parts. Beautiful, yes. But that’s the pity of it. She suggests to me
an octopus. She reached out one subtly mysterious tentacle and drew
Chetusingh into her maw. May God have mercy on him.”
    “What do you propose?” asked Warrender. “There’s no law I know of against
a woman being beautiful and witty.” The bishop handed the sketch back. “Who
drew that?”
    “I did.”
    “Possibly you, too, admire her too much. You didn’t do that from memory.
She must have posed to you for it. Well, you have talent.”
    “In my profession,” said Warrender, “all a fellow’s talents come in
usefully. Besides, there’s the inevitable retirement to bear in mind. When my
day comes to draw a pension I mean to take up painting—and live. I’d
rather be a duffer at that than die of boredom. However, what do you
suggest?” He returned the sketch to his pocket.
    “Less reprehensible people than Wu Tu are in prison,” the bishop answered
at last. “Such women break laws when it suits them. By breaking down
character they induce other people to break laws. Like you, I am not in
politics. But she is. It happens I know that. I have been told so by
perplexed Indian Christians, who come to me for advice on their personal
problems. To be in her kind of politics, but out of prison, suggests to
me— I can only say tolerance on the part of the police. That may be
convenient for the moment. It probably is. But—”
    There was another long pause. The anger in Blair’s eyes became less
latent, but he sat still. The bishop again mopped the sweat from his face;
then he drew out a cigar case, opened it, snapped it shut and returned it to
his pocket without taking a cigar. “You are Chetusingh’s friend,” he said,
“and he yours. I know you are his hero. He has admitted that to me many times
in my house, before this Jezebel got hold of him. You have your public duty
to perform, of course. But you are one of the few men in India to whom a wide
discretion in the course of duty is absolutely necessary and is therefore
permitted.
    “It would be useless to deny that; I know it is true. What higher duty
have you than you owe to a friend and comrade of an alien race, who has
adopted our religion, in the teeth of a malignant opposition from his family
and from his whole clan, simply because he admired our principles and our
adherence to them? You can save Chetusingh from that woman by using your
authority against her. Do it. Warrender, in the name of common decency, if
for no other